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by Paige242



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gendry is More Sensible, Jon Broods, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon in the North, JonSa if you squint, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Post-Canon, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25470637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paige242/pseuds/Paige242
Summary: Jon is haunted by his past and determined to live a miserable life of exile at the wall.Gendry arrives to talk some sense into him.(Post-Season 8)
Relationships: Jon Snow & Gendry Waters
Kudos: 11





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**Author's Note:**

> I love Jon and Gendry scenes and wish we had more! Here's one. I hope you enjoy :)

Although he had done his best to bolster the fire it did little to banish the chilling damp that hung in the air. It was warmer on the wall than it had been before the long night, but this was still the far north and Castle Black was merely a shell of what it had once been. Only a fraction of the old structure remained, speckled with loose stones and missing bricks which enhanced the frigid misery of the place.

Jon felt little joy whenever he inhabited this place.

That was why he had chosen to spend most of his time in the true north since his banishment. The wildlings were doing their best to rebuild their communities and helping with their efforts made him feel useful. That was something, at least. The Night’s Watch was an obsolete institution now, completely rudderless since the Night King and his army of undead had been defeated. Only a few stragglers remained. Men with absolutely nowhere else to go, huddled around fires on the edge of the north.

Although he did his best to avoid the place, Jon had still staked out a room for himself. It was practical to have a place to store a few of his belongings, and useful on the rare occasions- like tonight- when he happened to have a visitor.

He’d only had a day’s notice before the arrival of his current companion but he’d done his best to make the place presentable for the Lord of the Stormlands. He had no idea why Gendry had suddenly come to call. It was a long and unpleasant journey and he had been surprised to see that, despite his new status, the man had made the trek entirely on his own. He had arrived just as the sun began to set and they had tied his solitary horse and exchanged a few pleasantries before Jon had shown him to the chamber. It was difficult to mask his surprise and curiosity, but he had done his best to contain his queries until they were settled into their private location.

Now that their tankards had been filled with ale and the fire stoked, he knew that his wait was nearing an end.

“Lord Baratheon, please make yourself at home. I know it isn’t much,” he said, glancing around the small chamber “but I hope you can find some comfort after your long journey.”

Gendry offered him a warm smile as he took a seat across from him at the small wooden table. “I am sorry to impose on such short notice, but I thank you for your hospitality...” he hesitated, his eyes glancing at the red and black tapestry which hung next to the fireplace. “Lord Targaryen.”

As always, the sound of that cursed name sent a mixture of anger and sadness through him. He didn’t blame the other man from evoking it- he knew from his correspondence with Sansa that his secret was now widely known throughout Westeros. And he had to admit that his choice of chambers must have made him appear as if he had embraced his unwanted parentage. Maester Aemon’s room had been one of the few that remained standing and Jon had purposefully chosen it as his own. He had not had the heart to discard the Targaryen tokens that his former mentor had left behind. Perhaps it was partly an exercise in self flagellation— after every terrible thing that had transpired, he deserved to be reminded of the fire and darkness that he had aided, and the fire and darkness that lay within. But there was a lighter side to it as well. The tapestry he had hung and the items he had found in Master Aemon’s personal effects also reminded him of the old man. Reminded him that not all who came from his sire’s family were purely villainous. There was a twisted hope in that.

Perhaps he was not completely dammed.

“Jon. Just Jon.” He finally replied before taking a mind-numbing swig of his ale. It was bitter and unrefined, but the vile stuff often helped to soothe him on his most restless nights. Sometimes, it even stopped the innocent screams which echoed in his head.

The other man smiled again. “And it’s just Gendry.” He offered back as he leaned into the chair and let out a long breath. His form seemed to visibly relax.

“It’s been a while, Jon,” he continued, “and so much has changed— but I’m glad we can still speak freely.”

There was a short pause as they both took another deep sip.

“Part of me can barely believe where my life has gone, even after two years in Storms End.” The short haired man mused with a shake of his head. “To go from a bastard in the slums, a nameless nobody, to running my own castle and lands. I never could have imaged something like this, I find it hard to even describe the feeling— but I suppose you understand more than most.”

He ended his sentence with a hint of trepidation, clearly unsure of just how freely Jon wished to talk.

Though the thought caused some discomfort the man had raised a fair point. They had both been raised as bastards and been faced with life changing revelations about who they truly were.

In both cases, their revelations had set them on an entirely new course.

“Aye, I suppose I do,” Jon conceded, his eyes glancing towards the small gold ring he had recently taken to wearing on his finger. It had also belonged to his great uncle and he’d found it in a chest of precious keepsakes in the chamber several moons ago. At first glance, it had seemed unadorned but a closer examination revealed the form of a dragon etched inside. It had fit him perfectly and, for some reason, he had had kept it on. Most would see it as a plain band, unaware that a beast lurked within.

Jon had been able to draw another grim parallel there. It served as his reminder now, even when he was away from this place.

He could not allow himself to forget his burdens. 

“It seems strange, doesn’t it, that men we never met— names we never knew— seem to determine so much now.” Jon noted, looking back towards his guest. “These people and their symbols shouldn’t matter and yet, somehow, they do.”

“More than they should.” Gendry nodded in agreement.

It had not gone unnoticed that his friend had arrived with a stag embossed tunic, his horse draped in the colours of House Baratheon. As baffled as Gendry seemed by the entire situation it was clear that he had chosen to embrace it. It made sense, Jon supposed. The man was still establishing the loyalty of the Stormlands and was probably viewed as illegitimate in the eyes of many. The people liked tradition and stability, especially after years of unrest. It was wise to play up these connections.

It likely helped that Gendry was the mirror of Robert Baratheon (albeit in his younger and trimmer days).

He was also lucky that, unlike Jon, his revelations had not proven to be a curse.

“From what I hear,” Jon began again, attempting to lighten the mood somewhat, “you have been doing a fine job in your new role. I am truly glad that matters have worked out favourably for one of us.”

He raised his tankard, hoping to toast his friend and lay that conversation to rest but he could see from the troubled look on Gendry’s face that this was not to be.

“I appreciate your kind sentiments,” his visitor replied, fingers drumming once across the weathered table. It was almost as if he had grown nervous. “But in a way, that leads me to what I came here to speak to you about.”

There was a pause as Jon started back, waiting for him to continue.

“You see, we’ve all been talking and we agree that this has gone on long enough, Jon.”

Jon wanted to ask who “we” was but he was quite certain that he already knew. Sansa and Arya. And perhaps Bran too. All three had made their attempts to coax him home during the past two years and he had always refused. They meant well, and he knew that there was little danger now that the unsullied had departed and Yara Greyjoy had fallen victim to the stormy seas. But he still saw no reason to overturn his fate.

He deserved to be punished for what he had done. He had supported the Mad Queen, watched her slaughter a city. Then murdered his own kin without honour.

Letting him live had been more mercy than he probably deserved.

“So my cousins have sent you to plead their case?” Jon stated flatly before taking another large swig of ale. “I’m sorry they made you come all this way, and I appreciate your efforts, but I’ve already made my answer clear. This is where I will stay.”

Gendry pressed his lips together and Jon could tell he had accurately assessed the situation. He had probably come at Arya’s behest. Rumour was she had been at Storm’s End full time since returning from her first voyage. And Sansa certainly had an earful to contribute as well. The Queen in the North was most determined of all to see him return “home.”

Home.

He wasn’t even sure where that was anymore. Or where it had ever been.

Jon would always picture Winterfell, of course. The place he had grown, surrounded by the wolves he longed to join. But the events of recent years had made that home seem like a distant dream. Maybe this was the home he was always fated to have. A lonely chamber draped with the decaying symbols of a near-dead house. 

“So you want to be here then?” Gendry asked, his eyes surveying the dark room. Castle Black had not been an inviting place at the best of times and now it was a shell of its former self. “Personally, I don’t think you belong in this crumbling mess. Trust me, Jon, as we’ve just established I understand more than most how strange it feels to be hurled into a new life with no say or choice. But it doesn’t have to be so terrible if you don’t want it to be.” Gendry tapped his fingers across the table once more. “Bran hasn’t given away Drangonstone, you know. It’s still yours.”

Although that was a revelation, Jon did his best to keep the surprise from his face.

He was well aware of his rightful claim to the old Targaryen seat but the mere thought of it filled him with dreaded memories. 

“Tell him to give it to a deserving new lord,” he quickly replied, his stomach suddenly churning with discomfort. “I have no interest in that place.”

“But it’s your ancestral—“

“Gendry, please.” Jon learned towards his guest, desperation flashing in his eyes. He wasn’t angry per se, but this was not a conversation he wanted to pursue. “I don’t want it,” he reiterated, wishing Gendry would either abandon the topic or leave him in peace. He had always liked the man, but this visit had quickly become plagued by unwanted sentiments. “My only ancestral legacy is madness and death.” Jon pressed, stating what he had spent many sleepless nights trying to accept. “There will be no more Targaryens of Drangonstone. There will be no more fire and blood. It ends here, on the edge of the world. With me.”

Jon would never understand why anyone would want to see such a legacy continue. He hated the mere thought of it. Even his cousins should have been happy to let him live out his days here. Harmless and far from the lands his father’s family had nearly destroyed.

He would take no wife, hold no lands and father no children. 

It was for the greater good. Surely they had to understand that.

“None of that has to condemn you. Not all Targaryens are mad, Jon.” Gendry pointed out with annoying persistence. “You’re not. Your father wasn’t.”

Jon snorted in response.

“My only true father was Ned Stark,” he said firmly, repeating another mantra he had relied on during the lonely nights. “And the man who sired me was deluded by thoughts of magic and prophecy. He abandoned his wife and children to live out a delusional fantasy with my mother. Thousands died for his foolishness in the wars that followed. He may not have been a murderer, but I certainly don’t think he was entirely sane.”

Gendry considered his words for a second before offering his counter.

“The man who sired me was a murderer. And a whoremonger. He used my mother and tossed her aside, leaving her alone in the gutter with a fatherless child while he gouged himself on food and wine,” he pointed out with a raised brow, “does that make me the same? Am I to be damned by his actions?”

“No,” Jon relented.

It was a fair point, but the two cases were not the same. Gendry had never done anything unforgivable. He had lived a good life and, according the accounts he received from the south, continued to do so now.

“But, unlike you, I have done terrible things on my own accord. That is no secret,” Jon noted, his breath shaking as he let out a long exhale.

“The people speak of it, Jon. Of course it is no secret,” Gendry replied softly. “But almost all are thankful for what you did. They say you saved us from her tyranny.” He looked up at Jon, his blue eyes full of sincerity. “You seem to think that you are the most hated man in Westeros, with no choice but to rot in this place. But you’re not, Jon. Please believe me. You have done your time and your enemies have gone.” Gendry gave his head a slow shake as the smallest of smiles graced his lips. “Arya says you’re being stubborn about this because you’ve inherited your father’s black and white sense of honour. But life isn’t that simple, Jon. You may have made mistakes but you have also done so much good in this world. This does not have to be your fate.”

It was a tempting prospect. Of course it was. Aside from assisting the wildlings his life up here had little meaning. Tormund was a firm friend, but he missed others who were dear to him and he longed to roam the gates of Winterfell once more. On the nights when his mind wasn’t plagued with terrible memories, he dreamt of that.

He was still a young man, just past his twenty fifth name day. Of course he wanted more than this life.

The wars had finally ended.

His detractors had gone.

The only one left to fight now was himself.

He turned the dragon ring mindlessly with his thumb, trying to focus on the feeling of the cold metal against his skin. Trying not to let himself hope. He could not afford to lose sight of the danger within. 

“Sansa is doing well, but she would be happy for your help.” Gendry clearly had no intention of giving up. If the rumours of there relationship were true it was a wonder that he and Arya had not yet strangled each other, stubborn as they both were. “And, well—“ the other man hesitated, “some of the villagers just outside the Reach have reported dragon sightings in recent months. Your cousins were hoping you—“

“The dragon is nowhere near the Reach.” Jon cut in, pressing his lips together as another wave of discomfort washed through him. “He hasn’t left Valyria since he took Daenerys’ body there. I doubt he ever will. Westeros is safe.”

He could tell that Gendry was surprised by this firm pronouncement and he opened his mouth a few times, clearly searching for the correct response.

“How do you know?” He finally asked with a note of disbelief.

Jon let out a short, bitter laugh. “I may not look the part but, unfortunately, I do possess a few Targaryen traits. I realized soon after I arrived here that I could feel him, even from afar.”

There was no joy in this revelation and he had spent many weeks trying to find a way to shut out that connection. But, somehow, Drogon always remained. A faint but detectable presence lurking at the back of his mind. Jon had always had very little patience for mysticism and magic, but he had been forced to concede that legends must have had some merit.

“Dragon blood, I guess.” He muttered as he held out his hands, the bitterness dripping from his voice.

Another uncomfortable silence fell.

He could hear Gendry tapping again— this time, it was his foot beneath the table.

“You sound angry about that, Jon,” his companion pointed out, chancing a nervous glance in his direction, “I must say, I was a bit surprised when I walked into this room.” His eyes looked towards the old dragon tapestry. “It almost seemed as if you had embraced this side of yourself.” 

Perhaps the ale was getting to him. Jon could not hold back another bitter bark of laughter as he listened to his friend’s words. Gendry was not the first to comment in this way. Some of the men who remained at the Castle had been surprised by his chamber as well and Tormund had once asked if he was now a kin-fucking fire breather. 

“This chamber once belonged to an old Maester who, as it turns out, was a many times great Uncle of mine.” Jon explained, allowing himself a brief second of warmth as he recalled his kind mentor. He wished that he had known of their connection back then—there was so much he would have asked the man. But it was too late for that now. “Aemon Targaryen. He was a good man. Strange, perhaps, but he had the good sense to leave his fate behind. When I came back here I found an old chest of his things and I could not force myself to leave them buried. These items remind me of him and, more importantly, they remind me of why I need to be here.” Jon paused, steadying himself with a deep breath. “Even though I know who I am now, most days, it still doesn’t feel true. It is not how I see myself, not how I was raised. But as much as I hate it—hate who I truly am—it would be dangerous for me to forget. Like I said, Gendry, the best I can do now is make sure that it all ends with me.”

He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he was expecting from his guest but he was rather surprised to see a slow smile make its way across Gendry’s face. It was almost as if the man was amused by his pronouncements.

Jon watched as he suddenly took a long drink and wiped a few specks of ale from his lips, perhaps in an attempt to mask his inappropriate expression. 

“Alright, Jon. You’ve given me your dire assessment of the situation and now I’m going to give you mine.” 

All he could do was nod in return. 

“This—all of this—it is complete horseshit. I get that you were raised in a noble household with these sorts of notions, but I wasn’t. To me, all this talk of houses and legacies is absurd. We are all just people, trying our best to find a few glimmers of happiness in this world. No name, no legend, should prevent you from having that. Targaryen, Stark, Baratheon, Tyrell, Lannister…these are nothing but words. Sure, some have chosen to put meaning behind them but that is nothing but human invention. I am not my father. You are not yours. And you are the only one who gets to decide how you live and what you do. If you want to be a miserable cunt then fine, that’s your choice. I suppose none of us can stop you. But you don’t have to sit here brooding in this terrible place. You have done so much good, and there are many who care for you beyond these walls. If I were you, Jon, I’d say to hell with it all. You’ve already been through more than your share.” 

He looked towards his friend, surprised by the conviction behind his long rant. Clearly, the former blacksmith had gained some confidence in recent years and was not afraid to speak his mind. 

As much as Jon wanted to retort to reiterate his own “dire” beliefs he found himself starring across the table in quiet surprise. Once more, Gendry had raised several fair points which made the selfish side of himself want to relent. 

Why did it all have to matter so damn much? 

He could feel a surge of hope and desire swell within him but he did his best to quash it down. 

Instead of dwelling on the crux of the issue, he chose to focus on the two words that had taken him most aback.

“Did you just call me a miserable cunt?” He asked, feeling an unexpected tug at the side of his lips as he spoke. As serious as their conversation had been, he was admittedly amused by the other man’s colourful language. 

Gendry looked worried for a brief moment before catching sight of Jon’s slight smile. 

“I suppose I did.” He replied, leaning back in the chair as he crossed his arms across his chest. “It is not untrue.” 

Jon snorted. He was not known for a cheerful demeanour, that was no secret. But few had ever addressed him quite so bluntly. Frankly, it was rather refreshing. 

“I’ll grant you that,” he said, allowing the smile to overtake him as he raised his tankard towards his guest. 

Gendry returned the gesture, and both indulged in another long drink. 

“You know, this very moment goes to show the bizarreness of it all.” Gendry mused as he placed his vessel down with a rough clang. “Decades ago, who’d have thought that the sons of Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen would be here now, sharing a drink on the edge of civilization.” 

It was indeed a strange thought. 

Jon had never really paused to think about it, but the two had been sired by the bitterest of enemies. Gendry’s father had slain his own and taken his throne. It was a moment that had changed the course of history. And now, a stag and a dragon sat in peace. As friends. 

The past had faded away. 

“Do you blame me for it?” Gendry asked, a dark eyebrow raised. “For the fact that my father slayed yours so horrifically?” He clarified.

“Of course not,” Jon replied quickly, hoping the man held no discomfort over this fact. “You had nothing to do with that. You are not your father.” 

Gendry smiled. 

“And you are not yours.” 

He let out a long breath at this simple, but accurate, pronouncement. 

It was a soothing thought and some of the tension seemed to leave his form. 

Before Jon had a chance to reply, however, his companion leaned down to pull something from the bag he had carried on his journey. After a moment of shuffling, Gendry held out a folded piece of grey silk. 

“Like I said, I’ll never really understand the importance placed on all of these symbols,” Gendry noted, “but Sansa wanted you to have this. She worked on it for weeks.”

Curious, Jon unfolded the delicate cloth. Sansa had always been an accomplished seamstress and, as always, her artistry did not disappoint. She had embroidered six beautifully detailed wolves, a clear representation of the only family he had ever known. He felt an instant pang in his chest as his fingers brushed across the white wolf she had placed in the centre of the composition. 

In all the haste and chaos, he had not managed to bring anything from Winterfell to his northern exile. He appreciated this token, though it was difficult to ignore the sadness that it evoked. 

Two of those noble wolves were gone forever. 

Robb. 

Rickon… 

And he felt out of place on the tapestry he had always longed to be a part of. 

First a bastard, then a dragon. It was not what he desired and he wished, more than anything, that things could be simpler. 

“I think you should hang it in your chambers,” Gendry suggested as he glanced towards the fireplace where the faded dragons hung. “I think you need to remember, Jon.” He paused, his voice softer than it had been before. “You still have a place in this world. If you want it.” 

Jon tried to smile as he thanked his friend for delivering the gift. But, inside, the storm continued to rage. 

His hand brushed across the beautiful wolves, his ring glimmering in the dim firelight. 

Perhaps he would never reconcile the two halves of himself but, for a moment, a single word echoed in his mind. 

Home. 

At the very least, he would always know what that meant to him. 

Maybe that was enough.


End file.
